


Faces

by waiting4morning



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Deacon/Beatrice, F/M, Frankenstein?, Gen, Pre-Relationship, beacon - Freeform, face changing liar boy, heck yeah I'm using a relationship name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 15:31:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18663214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waiting4morning/pseuds/waiting4morning
Summary: From a tumblr prompt: Deacon has a scrapbook with pictures of each of his past faces, and the SS finds out that he’s based most of these faces off of pictures of celebrities he finds in magazines or on billboards. Set at some point prior to "A Beacon in The Dark."





	Faces

"Can I ask you something?" Beatrice said from her chair across from Deacon’s. They were stuck inside HQ waiting for word from the runners before Desdemona would allow them to leave on their latest mission. The Brotherhood had been more active over the past couple of days, and she'd been keeping a tighter leash than usual on the comings and goings from the Old North Church. The last thing they needed was armored soldiers noticing a steady stream of people coming to and from a seemingly abandoned building.

"I'm an open book, Whisper," Deacon said, sitting back in a chair, leafing through a comic.

_ Sure you are, _ she thought, but took the invitation. "What did you look like before?"

He beamed. "I thought you'd never ask. Wait here." He tossed his comic book on the desk and almost jogged to the little corner where a collection of footlockers rested against the brick wall. Nonplussed, she watched him unlock his and withdraw something large and square.

When he arrived back at the desk they'd been sharing, he plopped it in front of her with a grin. "Ta da!"

Beatrice blinked and looked at the book. It was large, rather like... "Is this a photo album?"

He nodded, straddling his chair and scooching closer like a little boy eager show off his favorite toy. "My favorite faces. Had collect pictures so the doc knew what I wanted."

Beatrice turned to a random page to find a collection of faces from worn and faded posters, clips from newspapers and magazines tucked into the plastic pockets of the pages. Some pages, however, were dedicated entirely to one face. She gasped. "You looked like Gregory Peck?!"

"That was a fun one," he said, grinning. "Only lasted a few months before I had to change, though. Too good-looking, that man. Got too much attention."

“I’m sure,” she said faintly, trying to imagine herself being taught the finer points of sneaking around and sniping from Gregory Peck with Deacon’s voice and failed utterly.

She flipped through the pages. They were many celebrities—most of whom she recognized, though lots of the faces were pictures from advertisements that used general models, and sometimes she felt like she could even see what drew Deacon's eye: a man selling toothpaste had a bump in his nose; a man advertising cigarettes had a cleft chin.

"Sometimes," Deacon said musingly, turning another page for her, "I had the doc pick random features and try to merge them into a cohesive whole. He liked the challenge. Helped do away with some of the glam inherent in celebrity faces too."

"What did you look like originally?" The question slipped from her lips and she wished she could pull it back in. Though she knew by now that he didn't always lie with every breath, he was notoriously closed off about anything to do with his past before the Railroad. Every time she had broached the subject, the lies returned with extra intensity for a few days.

Deacon didn’t look up but flipped through the pages again before pausing. “Here. This is what my original face was.”

Beatrice looked down at the page. Staring up at her was the heavy-lidded, corpse-pale face of the monster from  _ Frankenstein _ . She looked up at Deacon who had his head thrown back making garbled moaning sounds. He’d also somehow stuck empty bullet casings to the sides of his neck.

“Alright, Boris, you’ve made your point,” she said with a wry twist to her mouth. 

“Great movie for our times,” he said, turning to throw the bullet casings in Dr. Carrington’s corner where they pinged against the brick. “Book’s better, of course. Always is. But still, some of the same things going on… Man’s inhumanity to man, playing God with science, who or what is the real monster… good stuff. Too bad the folks that made the bombs didn’t heed its warnings.”

“Where did you manage to find a watchable copy of  _ Frankenstein _ ?”

“Well this one time, I found a time-traveling motorcycle and—”

Beatrice let the lie wash over her in all its glory, knowing she’d somewhat earned it with the personal question. 

But…. she glanced down at the book of faces and still wondered. What was the truth behind the lie she everyday saw on his face?

“Deacon, Whisper,” Desdemona’s voice made her snap to attention. “You’re up. Our girl is ready to move. Make sure the path is clear.”

“Roger that,” Deacon said, springing to his feet and pulling on his wig from somewhere. It was a little squashed.

Beatrice checked her gun and nodded. “Let’s go.”

#

The path was easy to clear. Only three raiders. The route the synth and accompanying agent were going to take skirted close to a raider outpost, but as luck would have it, most of the raiders were apparently out… raiding. Only a few stayed behind as delusatory guards, but they were so drunk Beatrice almost felt bad for them. Deacon stayed to rig some traps for the returners—trip lines and grenade bouquets—but until then, they waited in an empty storefront for the package in the gathering darkness of the afternoon.

Deacon, who’d been so gleeful about the traps, seemed to settle down, puffing on a cigarette and staring out the storefront’s empty windows. Sitting against the counter, their feet almost touching, Beatrice thought he almost seemed unsettled, though she was still learning to read him. Maybe he was just amped up about the mission. He’d said before he didn’t normally run missions that called for heavies. Desdemona seemed determined to make her into one, though personally she thought she preferred Deacon’s method: in and out with as few bodies as possible.

“Something wrong?” She had been gnawing on a piece of molerat jerky, but put it down to reach for her gun in case he’d spotted something she hadn’t. 

“No, we’re good—mission wise, I mean,” he said tapping ash out the broken window, “though now that I think about it, the cherry will give us away if the raiders come back.” He sucked one last drag and stubbed it out on the floor. 

Without the cigarette he seemed a little twitchy, fingers clenching and unclenching. It seemed more than just nicotine withdrawal.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, not moving her hand away from her gun. “Deacon, I swear, if there’s a deathclaw or something stalking down the street you have to tell me.”

“No,” he said, with a startled chuckle, “nothing like that, I promise. It’s just…” he grunted and scratched up under his wig. “I keep thinking about Frankenstein’s monster and… my collection of faces… the dead reanimated… and…. that question you asked earlier. It’s been nagging at me like a flea.”

Beatrice stilled.

“The truth is…” He hesitated, as if the word had tripped him up. “The truth is, I don’t remember what I looked like before,” he said, not looking at her. “I… there are some things about my face that I never change. You… you might be the first person I’ve told about that. The rest of them think I go in under the knife and it’s all new, but it’s not. But when I think to what I looked like before the Railroad, the details that… that someone else would recognize… “ A shudder ran through him, and she didn’t know what to say, suddenly realizing she pitied Deacon. He always presented a smooth, confident front, but this? This was a crack in that facade and she wasn’t sure what to do about it. 

The little storefront fell silent. Afraid he would spoil this rare truth with another lie, and needing something to do with her hands, she passed him a bottle of water.

“For what it’s worth,” she said, clearing her throat. “I like your current face. It looks… natural.”

He raised an eyebrow as he unstoppered the bottle. “You aren’t mourning the loss of Gregory Peck?”

She laughed. “Yes, I prefer your face over Gregory Peck’s.” In the dim light she blushed, suddenly aware of how that sounded, but he didn’t seem to notice. 

“Well that’s something at any rate,” he said, sounding marginally more cheerful. “Who knows, I might have been extremely ugly before. This mug at least doesn’t stand out too much, which suits our work pretty well. Probably why I’ve kept it as long as I have.”

“If I followed your lead and switched faces,” Beatrice said thoughtfully, “what do you think I should change?” 

He stared at her for silence in so long, she started to feel uncomfortable. Finally he grinned, though it seemed forced. “This is a trap. Woman asks man what she should change about her face, man answers and then gets shot. I’ve read that novel. No good can come from me answering.”

She nudged him with her foot. “I’m serious. No repercussions, I promise. What do you think I should change?”

“Well,” he said rubbing his hands together, “let’s have the resident expert get a look at you.” He reached out and tipped her chin up with the tips of his fingers, and suddenly for no reason she could think, Beatrice felt breathless.

He tilted her face this way and that, making a humming noise as he assessed the canvas of her face. Her skin felt hot under his regard, even through the sunglasses, and she felt foolish. She didn’t think she’d ever have the courage—or desire—to do the kind of extensive reconstruction work that Deacon had done so many times. She’d asked the question on a whim, wanting to keep the conversation going and now… now she was feeling like she might have prodded a little too much. 

She suddenly realized he’d stopped moving her face and they were just staring at each other.

He seemed to realize it as well and abruptly let go, patting his pockets and pulling out another cigarette. “Nothing,” he said, concentrating on his lighter and not looking at her. “I wouldn’t change anything.”

The floor was made of lava; that’s the only reason her whole body could feel so flushed with heat.

He cleared his throat as he lit the cigarette. “‘Sides, you can’t change your face. Your son will be counting on you looking the same when you find him, right?”

Beatrice wasn’t sure babies as young as Shaun could recognize faces, but it was a good excuse to close the conservation which had left her feeling oddly unbalanced. 

"Right,” she said, pulling her feet back a ways so they weren’t touching his. But the room still felt too close. She stood. 

“I’m going to check the raider nest. Be right back.” 

Deacon nodded, making no move to follow. Perhaps he’d sensed the weirdness too.

She paused at the open door, turning to see him still sitting against the wall, looking oddly small and lonely. “Deacon,” she said suddenly. He raised his head. “You’re not... “ She cleared her throat. “You’re not a monster. I mean, the face changes don’t change… you. I just… wanted you to know that.” Her tongue felt stupid and clumsy. 

To her surprise he simply nodded and she left, feeling warm again, and this time smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> "There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand." - Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
> 
> Fun fact: many scholars consider Frankenstein to be the first sci-fi novel, which means we have Fallout today in part because of Mary Shelley.


End file.
